


promise

by echoes_of_realities



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Friendship, OCD, also there's like two swears, between The Road Trip and Windbreaker City specifically, it's a little angsty, really it's Amy and the whole team, set in season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_realities/pseuds/echoes_of_realities
Summary: She wants to say I didn’t want to bother you and Sophia, she wants to say I want to be happy for you, I really, really do, she wants to say is this how you felt when I was with Teddy?, she wants to say I’m sorry.Instead she says, “It’s fine. It was a nice walk.” Her fingers are numb at the tips and she presses them harder into her cup, staring at the bridge of his nose to create the illusion of meeting his eyes.Or: Jake thinks she's the one, Amy pines for someone, anxiety waits for no one, and winter settles over New York.





	

 

_1\. and promise me this: you’ll wait for me only_

The air is damp with the heavy fog of morning. Amy’s breath comes in white puffs and she wraps her hands tighter around the warmth of her coffee cup. She burrows further into her scarf, the faded blue one with the eight dropped stitches her abuela had knit shortly before she passed. The walk to work is long, but peaceful. Few people are out this early in the morning, and the thick fog blanketing the city muffles the sounds of those who are out.

It gives Amy time to think, something that isn’t always a good thing for her. She has always prone to overthink every little detail and decision she’s ever made.

But today is different. 

Maybe it’s the fog muffling her thoughts, but a calming presence has settled over her, hovering somewhere under her sternum and softening the edges of her mind. It’s serene, and she’s almost dreading arriving at work. It’s the kind of moment that comes rarely to her non-stop mind. It’s a quietness that she savours, free from the anxiety and the compulsion and the perfectionism and the self-doubt.

It’s a rare moment of peace.

So of course, that’s when Jake crashes through the tranquil atmosphere, talking a mile a minute and pushing up against the quiet edges of her mind. The fog opens for a moment before closing around them. It creates a small moment where it’s just the two of them and the outside world disappears into foggy images. Amy sinks further into her worn scarf and warm jacket as her stomach twists at the sight of his easy grin and twinkling eyes.

“You’re early today,” Amy observes.

His grin widens, “Or maybe _you’re_ late.” Amy raises an eyebrow at him, slowly rolling her coffee between her fingers, until he relents. “Okay, okay, okay. Sophia dropped me off today.”

Something disturbs the peace that had settled in her chest. “Well this has to be a first,” she teases him. Her voice sounds brittle, like it’s cracking at the edges, and she tries to force herself under control, desperately wishing for something to distract her. Her mind feels fuzzy at the ends, like the edge of the precinct in the fog.

“What? No! I was early that- that one time, right?” his voice raises into a question. “That’s beside the point,” he finally insists, swinging a hand dismissively. “Why weren’t you in the parking lot? Your car is always perfectly parked in your spot _way_ ,” he draws out the vowel in the word, “before I’m even close to being here. Did you forget your keys?” he asks, and then immediately answers his own question. “No, that wouldn’t make any sense because you wouldn’t have been able to lock your apartment, and you always need to lock your apartment before you leave. Also, that has nothing to do with your car not being in the parking lot.” He hums as he considers her. She sips her coffee, letting the hot liquid slide down her throat and fill her stomach with its warmth. 

“I got it!” he suddenly exclaims, snapping his fingers for emphasis. His jacket bunches around his shoulders as he throws his arms wide. “Someone stole your car after you parked and you haven’t realized it yet. Someone stole your police car from a police precinct as you, a police officer, walked away not even realizing it. How is your luck even real?”

Amy scoffs and rolls her eyes, a response that is practically an involuntary relax at this point. “Yeah right. I walked here because my car’s in the shop.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me? I totally would have picked you up. Well, I would have got Sophia to pick me _and_ you up because I still don’t have a car. But she totally would have!” He’s so earnest and sincere that she subtlety shifts back from him, as if his light will reach into her chest and drag something out that had been shoved deep deep deep down when she started dating Teddy all those months ago.

She wants to say _I didn’t want to bother you and Sophia_ , she wants to say _I want to be happy for you, I really, really do_ , she wants to say _is_ _this how you felt when I was with Teddy?,_ she wants to say _I’m sorry_.

Instead she says, “It’s fine. It was a nice walk.” Her fingers are numb at the tips and she presses them harder into the paper cup, staring at the bridge of his nose to create the illusion of meeting his eyes.

He eyes her for a second, not quite believing her, but then he shrugs and his face breaks into the radiant smile that’s become more frequent since Sophia. He half-walks and half-bounces up the stairs of the precinct, still rambling about everything and nothing at once.

She smiles after him and ignores the quiet _thump-thump_ of her heart. 

She ignores the ache under her sternum when he starts talking about Sophia.

Her mind is traitorously silent, unable to distract her from the bright smile on his face.

 

* * *

 

_2\. scared of the lonely arms; surface, far below these words_

“So how long have you two worked together?” Sophia asks her one day. 

Amy glances across her and Jake’s desk to where Sophia is sitting straight in Jake’s chair, before focusing back on the file in front of her. “Um, seven years?” she says, but then considers that for a minute. “No, wait, it’s eight years in February I think.”

Sophia lets out a surprised noise. “That long huh?”

Amy jots down some notes from the file to look into later. The pen’s scratching is satisfying and familiar and calms her slightly. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”

“He must have changed a lot since then.”

Amy shrugs a little, a not-quiet-real laugh forcing itself out of her chest. “Not as much as you’d think.”

Sophia laughs, and the sound is gentle and genuine and Amy scribbles down more notes. 

Amy tries hard to like Sophia, but she’s beautiful and smart and funny and respected and everything Amy’s not, everything she’s wanted to be since elementary school taught her kids were cruel. Sophia’s perfect for Jake. She gets his jokes and watches the right movies and has made him grow up more than even he realizes. Amy’s chest tightens and then loosens, and then tightens again. The world shifts a little and she can sense the disorder on her desk; the way her monitor is turned a little too far to the right and the file that’s not lined up to the others and the phone cord that’s twisted into itself.

A million thoughts creep into her head, years and years and years of _not-good-enough’s_ and _OCD-freak’s_ and _nervous-weirdo’s_ and _do-I-have-to-pick-her?’s_ and _I-did-better-than-Amy-on-my-test’s_ and _why’s-her-skin-so-weird’s_ and _you-failed-miserably’s_ and—

“Amy, c’mon, I wanna go check out this lead,” a voice barks from somewhere above her.

Rosa materializes at her desk. Amy jumps a little, pushing the thoughts down, choking them past her closing throat and deep into her chest to settle somewhere near her stomach. They’ll crawl up her throat later, sometime that night, and she’ll organize her immaculate apartment because nothing is ever quite _right_. But that will be later, in the silence of her apartment, when the buzzing in her head turns to screaming. But that will be later, when she’s alone, free from the prying eyes of the precinct while she breaks down in the bathroom with the fan going and the door locked, something she learned as a kid that kept even the most nosy of brothers away. Even though she lives alone there are some habits she can never break. 

She stares at Rosa, who’s silent and steady and _real._ Amy forcefully shoves the panic to her edges, hoping they cut themselves there. “Sure,” she replies, voice more or less normal. She puts her computer to sleep and grabs her notebook and purse, holstering her gun and badge, pocketing her keys and phone in the jacket she slips into. It’s thick and warm and she wants to sink down into it and never come out. Rosa gives her an odd look, eyes darting between her and Sophia, before something flashing across her eyes too quickly to identify. Amy’s chest feels tight and she’s not going to lose it, she flat out refuses to. Not here and not now.

Amy turns to Sophia and apologies, but she easily accepts and waves Amy off with a warm smile. Rosa and her walk to the elevator, Amy forcing her muscles to relax and trying the various counting techniques her middle school counsellor gave her that have never once worked.

Amy can hear Jake’s exclamation of shock at Sophia sitting at his desk, Sophia’s explanation of wanting to surprise him; can hear the patter of his feet as he moves across the bullpen, the click of Sophia’s heels as she rises to meet him; can hear the rustle of clothing against clothing as they greet each other.

The elevator dings and Amy steps inside, pressing the basement button and not looking past the doors.

The buzzing has started again, and she furiously and discretely rubs the palm of her hand down the length of her jacket where it rests against her thigh, trying to rub off whoever has touched the elevator buttons before her.

Rosa thumps her gently on the back, something unusually soft in the crinkle of her eyes, before turning to face the doors as the elevator hums its descent. The buzzing easies a little and her hand stops twitching against her thigh.

The air of the parking garage is stale but miraculously calming. Rosa doesn’t say anything on the ride to follow up on the lead, and she doesn’t say anything when Amy steps out of the car only to stand numbly on the edge of the sidewalk, breathing deeply. Rosa just gets out of the car and stands stoically beside her while Amy composes herself, in the bitter wind on the sidewalk, scowling at anyone who’s curious looks she deems disrespectful, which is all of them. The wind is cold and bites into Amy, stealing her breath and freezing the inside of her nose when she inhales deeply. It’s refreshing and her chest loosens.

Amy’s grateful for Rosa’s silent support; grateful for the coffee Rosa pushes into her hands on their way back to the precinct, grateful when Rosa covers for her later that day as she escapes to the bathroom to compose herself.

Sophia makes Jake happy, and she wants Jake to be happy because he deserves it and because he’s her best friend and partner of nearly eight years. She wants him to be happy more than she wants anything else, even at the cost of her own happiness.

It’s not the first time she comes in last.

 

* * *

 

_3\. shelter as we go_

Amy’s had anxiety attacks for almost as long as she can remember. In that time, she has gotten near-prefect at keeping her rising panic hidden, or at least hidden until she can flee to her house and lock herself in the bathroom. (The bathroom at the precinct works too in a pinch. It gets easier when Rosa and Gina show her Babylon and swear her to secrecy; neither of them comment when she disappears to it, hands tapping out rhythms against her thighs in attempts to calm herself.)

Usually Jake anchors her through the anxiety if she can’t flee, or pulls her into a semi-secluded place and talks her through it. There’s many times he doesn’t and she shoves it deep inside to deal with later, and there are times he’s not there when her panic gets uncontrollable and explodes out of her.

The first time is during Jake’s undercover operation when Captain Holt suggests a new partner. She doesn’t really remember how the conversation goes after that, just that she ends up in the quietness of Babylon at some point with a promise that Jake won’t be replaced. Gina and Rosa find her half an hour later and help her stand and reapply her ruined mascara. The three of them are oddly silent as they think of the boyish-man who caused all this upheaval in their collective lives.

The next time it happens is sometime after her mostly disastrous and brief partnership with Captain Holt himself. Jake’s on his day off, probably catching up on sleep somewhere or spending rare free time with Sophia. She’s not even really sure what triggers it, just that the buzzing is starting up and her chest is tightening, her breathing coming in sharp gulps. She barely has time to think of how embarrassing this is, to lose it in front of her Captain and mentor, before something short of a scream is clawing its way up her throat in an effort to escape her chest.

She tries to control it, and fails miserably, a strangled breath catching against her teeth in some sort of gasp. Holt barely has time to realize what’s happening before her throat closes and her hands start to twitch. She counts in her head and taps her fingers against her thighs as if they’re a piano, testing out rhythm after rhythm in attempts to control herself. But her mind’s been buzzing for the last couple of days and Babylon is too far away to escape to without anyone seeing.

Holt’s mouth forms a string of incoherent and silent words, before he moves quickly and efficiently to the door, shutting it and pulling the blinds closed.

He’s surprisingly (and unsurprisingly) blasé about the whole event, the only sign of distress the tightening around his eyes and the semi-tone higher pitch of his voice as he calmly talks her through the attack, helping her regulate her breathing and easing the tension in her chest and the buzzing in her head. Once she can breathe easier, she’s gripped with the horrifying knowledge that she just broke down in front of her mentor. Holt is sitting on the floor in front of her, a steady presence that anchors her to the reality of the situation. She’s not even sure how she ended up on the floor, let alone how Holt ended up sitting cross-legged like a kindergartener waiting for story time.

“Sorry,” she mumbles to him.

He frowns, “Nonsense, Santiago.”

She nods, and then nods again. “How did you know?” she whispers.

“Your anxiety and OCD is well documented in your file,” Holt answers with a small downturn of his lips. Amy thinks it might be confusion.

Amy nods again, even if that wasn’t what she was asking; because she knows that it’s well-documented, she was the one who documented it, but none of their other captains had ever cared enough to read any of the squads’ files. She shivers, inhaling through her nose and letting it fall out through her lips. Visualizing each strand of anxiety releasing its vice grip on her ribs; it doesn’t work, it never really does. She speaks again to distract her from herself. “I meant how did you know how to handle it?”

Holt considers this for a minute, staring thoughtfully past her shoulder. Amy wrings her hands, and then smooths them against her thighs. She starts playing out rhythms against them when he doesn’t respond, already exhausted nerves continuing to fire. Amy’s just about to tell him to forget she asked when he finally answers. “When we were young, Kevin would have anxiety attacks before major presentations, sometimes just out of the blue too.”

“He did?” she breathes.

“Yes,” Holt confirms. “The first time I witnessed one it was quite disconcerting. I froze, which did nothing to help him through it. As years passed I began to understand how to assist him through the attacks, but that makes it no less difficult to watch the man I love go through them.”

Amy’s fingers still against her legs. “Jake says the same thing,” she replies, before hastily backtracking her statement at his slightly raised brow. “Not the- Not the part about me being the man he loves.” Her ears warm. “But the part about it being difficult to watch no matter how many times he’s seen it.”

Holt considers this. “I take it Detective Peralta has helped you through these before.”

Amy nods her confirmation, fingers fluttering against her thighs. “They used to be a lot worse when I first joined the Nine-Nine, but it’s gotten easier. The squad knows about them but, um,” she hesitates, unwilling to continue.

“Go on, Santiago,” he prompts.

“Theyarenotverygoodatdealingwiththem,” she blurts out in one breath.

Holt’s eyes take on a knowing glimmer of something that might be amusement. “I see.”

“I mean, they’re great and super supportive and all!” she hurries to explain. “But they aren’t really experienced with it. Terry reverts to treating me like one his twins, and Charles just panics and starts talking really loudly. Rosa and Gina are surprisingly good at it though.” Holt’s mouth twitches in question. “I mean, Rosa can be pretty calming, and she doesn’t force me to talk. And Gina always helped,” she pauses, wondering if it’s her place to say. Holt nods for her to continue so she does. “I guess Jake used to have pretty bad anxiety after his dad left,” she says in a hush, even though they’re the only ones in the quiet office, “so Gina used to help him with it. It’s why Jake’s so good at helping with them now. And why he’s always called to talk down jumpers.”

Holt’s quiet for a long moment. “Does he still have them?” he finally asks.

Amy nods slowly. “Sometimes. Usually I help him, but I know Rosa used to when they were in the Academy, and I’m pretty sure Gina still helps him too.”

Holt _hmms_ before standing. Amy stands too, her previous embarrassment and awkwardness returning. Holt watches her while she runs a hand through her hair and reties the slightly tangled strands in a ponytail. 

“Thank you, sir,” she murmurs before turning to leave. She’s just about to open the door when Holt speaks up behind her.

“And Santiago?”

She turns back to him, hand hovering over the doorknob. “Captain?” she asks uncertainly when he doesn’t continue.

He gives her a hard look that’s slightly belied by the softness crinkling his eyes. “Anytime.”

 

* * *

 

_4\. we’ll wait through the hours of cold; winter shall howl at the walls_

She thinks of Gina leaning over the table in the dimly lit bar, sometimes, face illuminated from within and eyes tracking Amy’s face. Her relationship with Teddy was far from perfect at the time (or at any time, if she was being honest with herself), and she was far from perfect, but Gina had watched her with thinly veiled interest and it made Amy think that maybe, _maybe_ , Gina didn’t completely hate her company.

It’s months later, at the beach house and sometime after six-drink Amy had disappeared with the cool glass of water Gina brought her, when she knows that Gina doesn’t always hate her company. 

Gina is sitting with Amy on the guest bed of the room Amy had claimed years ago. The window’s thrown open and the cool January air is spilling into the room. The blanket Gina had  wrapped around them is gradually slipping off Gina’s pale shoulders, but it doesn’t seem to faze her as she scrolls down some blue website on her phone, occasionally smirking and rapidly typing something out. Amy lets her head roll back to rest against the wall somewhere by Gina’s partially blanket-covered shoulder. She’s mostly peaceful, her head only buzzing a little and her thoughts mostly silent. Her stomach stopped rolling sometime after the glass of water and her fingers aren’t tingling anymore. She wiggles her toes inside her socks, where they’re somehow both freezing and clammy, and shivers. No matter what time of year or where she was, she was always mostly freezing.

“What do you think of Sophia?” Amy asks, abruptly breaking the easy silence.

Something deep inside her both tenses and loosens itself, like a bird thrilled to finally be free but terrified of what comes next.

Gina scowls in the light from her phone, face partially in shadows. “I dunno and I don’t really care.” When Amy doesn’t respond, Gina huffs out a breath. “ _Fine,_ ” she draws the word out even though Amy hadn’t said anything. “I think she’s alright. But pant-skirts? Bleh. That’s worse than a pantsuit, like make up your mind already, you can’t be fashionable _and_ professional. At least you don’t care about fashion and are just professional-able? Professable? Professionable?” Amy grins at the attempt at an insult, slurred and soft with the alcohol still swirling through Gina’s system. 

“I didn’t ask what you thought of her clothes,” Amy counters. Her head falls down to Gina’s shoulder. Gina just shifts a little, straightening so Amy’s neck doesn’t stretch as much.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Sasquatch. Don’t get your hair in a knot.”

“Mmm, it’s already tangled,” Amy mumbles.

Gina rolls her eyes so hard her head bangs into Amy’s. It rests there while Gina contemplates her answer. “She’s alright,” she repeats. “Definitely cooler than you, obviously.” Gina elbows her but still doesn’t remove her head from the top of Amy’s. “And Jake likes her a lot and seems to be really happy, but,” Gina trails off for a moment. “I’ve known Jake for forever and he needs,” Gina trails off again to think. “They’re too similar. It would be like dating yourself, eventually everything gets boring because you already know everything. Unless of course yourself is me. If I dated myself nothing would ever be boring ever because I’m even a mystery to myself.”

Amy laughs into Gina’s shoulder. “Plus. Defence lawyer,” she adds.

She feels more than sees Gina’s full-body shudder. “The actual scum of the earth,” she agrees.

“Isn’t that why it didn’t work with Teddy?” Gina asks after a moment, lazily flicking her thumb up her phone screen to scroll down the page. “You guys were too similar right?”

Amy hums in agreement and they sit in silence for a while, the only light coming from Gina’s phone and illuminating her features in harsh blue. A brisk breeze floats through the room but Amy’s too comfortable to get up and close the window. She burrows into her blanket and curls closer to Gina, who’s surprisingly warm.

“That and the mesh underwear,” Amy finally relents.

Gina’s laugh shakes her entire body and loosens something in Amy’s chest.

 

* * *

 

_5\. and meet me there, bundles of flowers_

“Hey, Charles, can you check this—” Amy breaks off at the clattering of mugs against the counter and switches her question mid-sentence. “What are you doing?” 

“Amy!” Charles squeaks, trying and failing to hide the open cupboard behind him. His voice is cracks as it pitches high, “What art thou doing hither?”

Amy raises a brow at him. “Charles,” she says warningly. She’s mostly just curious, but also a little defensive. He’s gotten really weird around her and Jake lately. He’s fine if they’re alone, just his usual idiosyncratic self, but when she’s in the same room as Jake, Charles gets all fidgety and speaks way too loudly. She’s still not sure why, but if this is another of his weird ideas involving her and Jake being _together_ she’s going to explode. He has all these weird ideas of them as Amy and Jake, not Santiago and Peralta, which, truthfully, is a thought that creeps into her mind with concerning frequency. “What are you doing?” she repeats.

Charles shifts from side to side, before his face crumples and he steps away from the counter. The kitchen cupboard is in disarray. The plates and bowls are neatly stacked on one side of the cupboard but most of the cups are sitting on the counter. The ones that are in the cupboard are arranged by—

“Charles, are you reorganizing the cupboard?”

Charles laughs awkwardly from somewhere by her shoulder, surveying his work. “Yeah. It’s by type of dish and then by design and then by colour.”

“But,” Amy sputters, more than a little shocked, “I’m the only one who cares about that.” Her arms hang by her sides, the file she had intended to give to Charles swinging loosely between numb fingers.

Charles lets out another awkward laugh and rubs at a spot on his elbow, shrugging uncomfortably. “Yeah, but we care about you,” he responds earnestly.

Amy’s heart thumps into her sternum, knocking loose a little bit of tension that’s been there since the afternoon phone call from her papá yesterday. “I- But it’s- I mean—”

“It’s okay, Amy,” Charles interrupts. “I know last night was hard for you and your family and when I got here this morning the cupboard was a disaster so I figured I’d order it for you.”

“I—”

“I know you always arrange by type of plate and then colour. And for the mugs it’s always the shape of the mug and then by colour. And I think I even remembered the order the they go in. It’s tall mugs, sub-sorted by round and square, and then the short mugs, which are then sorted by round and square. And also the type of handle at some point, right?”

“But- But why?” she whispers.

Charles avoids her eyes, a gentle smile spreading across his face. “We know you have OCD, and it gets worse when you’re stressed, so we thought we’d make the precinct a little more Amy-friendly today. Terry fixed your monitor just right and Rosa collected and washed all the dirty dishes. Gina said something about dispelling bad energy around your desk? Which I think is brilliant, by the way. And Jake even tidied his desk up. Or, I think he did. He tried to.”

Amy’s speechless, opening and closing her mouth a couple times as the buzzing in her head eases. “I- Thank you,” she settles on, more sincere than she’s ever been.

Charles smiles, less awkwardly this time, and moves to make room by the counter for her to help. She sets the file on the counter and steps up beside him. She rearranges some of the mugs he’s already placed in the cupboard until they finally feel right, sorted in the same order she had first sorted them eight long years ago. She glances at Charles out of the corner of her eye, hoping he’s not offended, but he’s just studying the new order, as if memorizing it for future reference.

They work in silence for a while, the repetitive motion of making things right again soothing Amy.

“How is your brother?” Charles finally asks after humming under his breath for a while, as if trying to figure out how to start his question.

Amy swallows with some difficulty, turning a mug until the handle is pointing the right way. “He’ll be okay,” she finally answers. 

Charles grins beside her and bounces on his feet, joy completely genuine. “That’s great news!”

Amy nods silently and adds another mug to the cupboard. “Yeah. He was in pretty bad shape last night though. We thought—” she inhales heavily through her nose and exhales through barely parted lips, stomach twisting. “We thought we were going to lose him for a while there.” 

Charles’ smile slips from his face. “Amy, I’m so sorry.”

Amy shakes herself and smiles at him, tiny and sincere. “It’s okay. I mean,” she half shrugs and half shakes her head, “he’s going to be fine. Thank god he was wearing his seatbelt or else he’d—” her voice cracks at the end. “But he’ll be okay.” 

She thinks of her family last night. Huddled in a family room at the hospital, her mamá sitting stoically in the chair closest to the door, the only sign of distress her white knuckled grip on the hands of their silently crying papá. She thinks of Ed, his glasses slipping down his face and an arm thrown around a shocked Manolo; of Luís and Andres, huddled together in the corner of the room;and of Rafi, curled up by himself, shooting glances at the door every time someone walks past. She thinks of Fico’s shuddering breaths beneath her arm across his shaking shoulders; of her own suffocating panic and icy fear. She thinks of Herbie, somewhere in the hospital surrounded by strange doctors and loud equipment, desperately holding onto life. 

She thinks of that terrible phone call from her papá and his quivering voice; of Rosa spinning the car on a dime and rushing her to the hospital without any thought for the case they were heading to. She thinks of the too-bright lights of the hospital hallway and the too-dim one’s in the family room; of the sympathetic doctors and nurses giving them knowing looks; of the agonizingly long hours as late afternoon slipped into early evening slipped into late night; of the tired doctor who appeared ten hours after that first call, a small smile as he tells them that Herbie was _finally stable_ and that _he would be fine_ and _who would like to see him first?_

She thinks of Rosa’s text, promising that she would find the driver who fled from the scene after he ran a red light and t-boned her poor baby brother, even if it killed her; of her broken call to Holt, voice shaky and breathy as she explained why she wouldn’t be able to head back to the precinct that day unless he really needed her to, and of his gentle but firm interruption for her to take all the time she needed. She thinks of Charles’ offer to bring her family food, thoughtful even if none of them wanted to eat; of Terry’s long and heartfelt text that nearly broke her. She thinks of Gina’s slightly insulting, but mostly genuine, message and promise of heavy drinking once everything was over; of Jake’s frantic texts, asking her if she needed anything and that he cancelled his dinner with Sophia and would stay up throughout the night just in case she did.

Amy smiles at Charles just as Jake appears in the kitchen. He’s mid yawn, dark circles under his eyes and shirt buttoned wrong, but his face melts into immediate concern upon seeing her. The tension eases from her, mind settling into a distraught but oddly peaceful state.

“We’ll be okay,” she finally says.

 

* * *

 

_6\. to tell you stories of mine_

“Santiago?”

Amy hisses as she slams her knees against the bottom of her desk with the force of her jump. She bites back an expletive that would definitely have made her mamá wash her mouth out with soap like she had for so many of her brothers. (Okay, for all of them; except for Manolo, because he was the baby and could get away with practically anything.) She regains her senses enough to look up and see who had interrupted her.

Terry looms over her desk, blocking out the lights and wearing a long coat. “Hey, Sarge,” she says in a small voice. 

Terry frowns down at her. “What are you doing here, Santiago?”

Amy shrugs a little and straightens her keyboard, focusing on her monitor. “Working.”

She’s not looking at him, but she can sense Terry move closer to her desk. The lights flood the corner of her eye as he crouches down beside her chair. “Santiago?” She still doesn’t look at him. “Amy, it’s five in the morning and you’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Have you even left?”

She doesn’t respond, but the half-shrug is enough of an answer for him. He takes the arm of her chair and rotates her towards him. “What is it?”

She silently shakes her head and stares at the tiles between her feet and his knees. Her head is throbbing and there’s a cluster of pain somewhere behind her left eye, but she’s already had one anxiety attack tonight (last night, she realizes) and she refuses to have another. Especially in front of Terry. There’s a long stretch of silence, the only sound the faint hum of someone vacuuming somewhere in the distance. She can feel Terry’s eyes on her face but she refuses to look at him. She knows the tear tracks aren’t visible, she made sure of that in the pale light of the bathroom a couple hours ago, and she’s got the shakiness of her hands under control. Terry places one of his large hands on top of hers, stilling them with a steady grip.

Maybe she’s not as in control as she thought she was.

“Amy?” Terry prompts softly.

She takes a trembling breath, inhaling the fresh scent of Terry’s cologne. The smell is comforting, and familiar, like the scent of oil and sandalwood that always follows her papá. “I’m fine,” she murmurs. 

“If you were fine you wouldn’t have been working for the past twenty-odd hours,” Terry reprimands softly. She imagines this is how he speaks to the twins when they get in trouble, chastising but understanding, firm but gentle. She finally forces herself to meet his gaze, and finds only concern in his warm eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

She shakes her head, because she’s not even sure herself.

He nods slowly. “Can I help?” She shakes her head again. “Okay,” he murmurs, rubbing a thumb along the back of her hands when he feels them start to tremble again. “Can I take you home?” he tries.

She shakes her head, finally speaking. “No, I have so much work to do and I—”

“Work can wait,” he interrupts. “You need rest.”

“But my shift starts in—”

“I’ll handle it.” 

“My car—”

“Will survive a night in the precinct.” Amy swallows quickly, trying to think of other protests but, truthfully, she just wants to go home and curl up in her bed and never leave. “Let me take you home,” Terry prompts again.

She finally nods. He stands, backing up to give her some space. She slips into her coat and shoves her keys and phone into her pocket. She stands there for a moment until Terry steps closer to her to turn off her computer and close the file on her desk. She’s still standing there, paralyzed, when Terry reaches around her to grab her purse and carry it to the elevator. She follows him silently; and he’s content to let her remain quiet all the way to his minivan.

They spend the ride mostly in silence too. She is surrounded by spare movies and cheerios and crumpled napkins. It makes her fingers itch a little, but she manages to mostly suppress the urge to organize the sippy cups sprawled on the floor by colour, only nudging them into cool and warm colour groups with her toe.

“You’re better at this now,” Amy says without thinking, pushing two pink cups together. “Better than you used to be, I mean,” she hurries to explain, glancing up at him in slight panic, because he was never _bad_ at helping with anxiety attacks, but he also wasn’t exactly _good_ at it.

Terry chuckles a little at that, eyes straying from the road to glance at her. He refocuses on the road to turn onto her street. “I’ve been reading some books about how to help people with anxiety,” he admits, and something in Amy’s chest blossoms with warmth. “I figured it was about time I started learning how to help my dumb grown-up kids through their difficulties instead of just treating them like the twins.”

She gives him a small smile. “You’ll make an amazing captain one day,” she tells him, and really, truly means it.

His smile widens as he pulls up to her apartment. She unfastens her seatbelt and steps out of the van, thanking him profusely. She’s just about to shut the door when Terry speaks up. “Hey, Santiago.” She pauses, her hand resting on the frost covered door. “You’ll make an amazing captain one day too.”

Her smile stays in place even after she shuts the van door and enters her apartment, widening as he waits until after he’s sure she’s inside her apartment and the door is fully shut, and remaining long after he pulls away from the curb.

Sometime that day, after a much needed nap and when the last few hours of afternoon is fading into the early evening sun, she glances out her window to see her car parked outside in its usual spot. Her face twists in confusion, thoughts flying through her head of possible stalkers and creeps and a million absurd ideas of how her car, which was at the precinct, got outside her apartment, which is definitely not the precinct, without her keys, which were currently sitting on her counter. Her phone buzzes in her hand and she practically jumps out of her skin.

Jake’s name lights up the screen, a series of messages appearing in rapid succession, all of them explaining how he used the _spare set of keys you gave me in case of emergencies to drive your car to your apartment so you would be able to get to work tomorrow_ and that he _tried the door but you didn’t answer_ and _Terry said you were sick this morning_ and _do you need anything?_ and _it’s suuuuuper boring here without you_ and _are you sure you’re feeling alright?_ because apparently _a Die Hard marathon will cure anything_ including and not limited to her supposed _general boring-ness_. His messages are surprisingly articulate, with mostly proper grammar and an absurd amount of emojis (Gina’s influence, she’s sure). 

She answers most of his texts, but, as usual, by the time she’s responded to one he’s already sent three back. She fondly rolls her eyes at her phone and sets about making some toast because she hasn’t ate since sometime before six last night and it’s something she (usually) can’t mess up.

When she gets to work the next day, feeling more rested and calmer than she has for a while, Jake is already sitting at his desk. He looks up at her and gives her a small smile, eyebrows drawn together in concern, silently communicating his worry. She smiles back at him and takes her seat at her desk. Once he’s sure she’s truly fine, he immediately starts teasing her about something obscure and unrelated to anything regarding her absence yesterday. Her smile comes easier throughout the day, even through Sully knocking her coffee to the ground, and through Jake stopping mid-bite to answer a call from Sophia, partially chewed peanut butter sandwich nearly falling from his mouth.

Terry leaves a box of pure Kava tea on her desk sometime during the day without her noticing, a note with the words _for my dumb grown-up kid_ scrawled across the top of the box. He stays until after she packs up her things and is sure that she is actually heading home, a small smile settling across his face as she passes his desk on her way to the elevator. 

That night she buys a container of expensive mango-yogurt and leaves it on his desk the next morning before he gets in, a sticky-note with the words _thank you_ neatly printed across it.

 

* * *

 

_7\. and maybe, just maybe, I’ll come home_

It’s late January when Jake stands beside her on a bridge and stares out across the river. Snow falls lightly around them, catching in his eyelashes and settling on her hat. His breath comes out in long clouds of white mist, like fog curling up around his face before dissipating into the evening air. Amy leans against against the railing, the cold metal freezing her arms even through her jacket and the sweater underneath. She lets her hands hang over the empty air on the other side of the railing, wrapping her hands tight around her coffee. Jake drinks his coffee beside her, slurping obnoxiously loud, before leaning his back against the rail.

“Sophia broke up with me.”

Amy swallows and glances up at him. He’s not looking at her, instead staring resolutely across the lines of traffic and the pedestrians on the other side. The weak sun slants across his face, his eyes dark and shiny.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him sincerely. She means it, she really does, because Jake really liked Sophia and she made him happy. And because he was first and foremost her partner and best friend, and after everything he’s been through he deserves to be happy.

Jake kind of shrugs and kind of shivers in some sort of full body shudder that starts in his shoulders and trembles down his back. He turns around to lean his elbows on the railing, mirroring her position. He holds his cup near the top, grip loose and Amy has the sudden image of it tumbling through the air into the dark river below. “Yeah well,” he finally says, but doesn’t continue the statement after that. They stand in silence for several long moments before Jake shifts, his body swinging closer to hers and staying there. 

She takes a long drink of her coffee and then moves close to him until his arm is pressed to hers from shoulder to elbow, knowing his need for physical comfort. “Jake?” she prompts softly. “You can talk to me if you want,” her voice is low and he leans closer to listen to her. “And if you don’t want to talk I’ll still be here.”

His lips twitch into some semblance of a smile, before he turns back to watching the dark river swirl below them.

“I just—” he starts, and then stops. She feels more than sees a breath rattle his frame. “I just don’t understand,” he finally mumbles. His head hangs low, snow swirling across his neck and under his collar; he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “It was going so well and then _poof_. Everything exploded so spectacularly.”

Amy’s quiet for a long while, trying to figure out how to make his pain stop. “I’m sorry,” she repeats; and then: “I know she made you happy.” The words aren’t as difficult to say aloud as she thought they would be.

“See that’s the thing,” Jake says, finally looking up at her. “I don’t know if she did. At the time I was happy, but looking back I’m not sure if it was happiness. I guess I won’t really know though.” Jake chuckles, but there’s no bitterness to the tone, it’s just painted in sadness and heartache. “I told her that I loved her.” Amy’s heart thumps loudly in her ears. “And at the time I think I loved her. Maybe. I mean, I definitely liked her a lot, like a-lot-a-lot, but, uh, I dunno. And now, well now everything is terrible and I really really miss her.”

Amy presses her body closer to his and he smiles down at her in gratitude. 

“I don’t think I even know what love is at this point,” he mumbles eventually. “I think my parents permanently fucked up my idea of love,” he glances at her. “Sorry.”

She shrugs beside him. “It’s fine. I think Sophia fucked up.”

“ _Amy._ _Santiago._ Did you just _curse_?”

Her checks flush. “ _What_?” she draws the word out for a long moment. “Me? Never?”

But Jake’s laughing beside her, shoulders shaking as he looks down into the partially frozen river. “You totally did! No take backs!” Amy ducks her head and bites down on her lip to stifle her own grin, because it _definitely_ wasn’t her intention to make him laugh, not even a little bit. “Amy Santiago knows how to swear!” he shouts to the mostly empty bridge. Another couple on the bridge look back to shoot them a weird look, which was probably supposed to be admonishing but just looks constipated from this distance. 

She mutters in Spanish at him, and he frowns before his eyes widen. “I’ve heard you say that so many times before, is it a swear too?” he shrieks with glee.

She smiles at him, before drawing out a long “No” while Jake shakes with laughter beside her.

They walk back to Jake’s apartment, where Amy’s car is parked down the street. At some point Jake’s hand finds hers, somehow absurdly warm even though he’s no wearing gloves. Her stride falters slightly. His face flushes and he starts to pull away but she tugs him back to her side. “I get it,” she murmurs, curling the fingers of her other hand into the bend of his elbow. Jake was a tactile person and sought comfort from touch, she understood.

Her heart doesn’t quite understand, given the fact that it is loudly pounding somewhere that is both deep in her chest and nestled in her ears.

They hold hands all the way to his apartment, fingers tangled until they part, Jake to his apartment and Amy to her car. Jake starts to thank her but she quickly shakes her head.

“It’s okay, Jake, I get it.” He smiles at her and bids her goodnight, something light in his eyes that wasn’t there that morning. She stands there watching him until he disappears inside his building, and then finally turns to walk to her car.

She gets it. She really does. Sometimes the only thing that eased the heartache was the warm comfort of a friend.

 

* * *

 

_bonus. tearing down doors of time_

The next year she’ll walk to work on a foggy morning, white puffs of breath curling around her face. The damp air will wind around her and she’ll huddle into the worn blue scarf from her abuela. Her mind won’t have completely silenced in the past year, and she will still overthink every detail and decision she’s ever made, and she’ll still be as anxious and compulsive as ever, but it’ll be different.

That year will be easier.

Her world will be blessedly silent in the heavy fog, steadying and calming in its stillness. It will comfort her, the rare quiet of her mind and the warmth embedded under her sternum.

Jake will emerge from the fog, but he won’t disturb the tranquility this time, instead the warmth in chest will blossom into something light and pure. It will be just the two of them in the bubble of silence. He’ll burst out laughing upon seeing her, because she will be carrying two cups of coffee to match the two cups in his hands. Her smile will stretch wide across her face, until she’s laughing with him. 

She’ll tell him that he’s early and he’ll tease back that he wanted to surprise someone. He’ll be so earnest and sincere that she’ll shift closer to him, searching for his light to reach into her chest and pull out the warmth that’s been settled there for what feels like years.

He’ll tell her that the new mattress will arrive later that day and that he can’t wait to break it in by mattress trampoline, face lit brighter than the pale sun trying to push through the fog.

She’ll want to say _you are the best thing that’s happened to me_ , she’ll want to say _I’m so happy with you, I really am_ , she’ll want to say _this how relationships are supposed to feel_ , she’ll want to say _I love you_.

Instead she’ll kiss his check, her fingers numb at the tips and eyes bright as she meets his.

He’ll grin at her, eyes sparkling and checks pink, and take her empty cup and drop it in the trash along with his, exchanging the too-sweet full one still in her hands and passing her the half-and-half he bought for her. He'll half-walk and half-bounce up the stairs of the precinct, rambling about everything and nothing.

She won’t ignore the _thump-thump_ of her heart this time.

She’ll take his free hand with a gentle smile and he’ll lace their fingers together. She'll savour the ache under her sternum when he leans over to peck her on the corner of her mouth.

Her mind will finally be silent, unable to distract her from the bright smile on his face.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> 1\. I honestly have no clue what this is. Some sort of combination of pining Amy (which is pretty loosely used at best tbh) and also anxiety and the fact that it is currently winter here in Alberta. And also the fact that I started Brooklyn Nine Nine after season 3 started so I already knew Jake and Amy were together, which made me like Sophia a lot actually. (But not Teddy for some reason, I don’t really know, I got a Nice Guy™ vibe from him and could never really like tbh.) Also, Amy plus any of the squad is guaranteed awesome. Also, first fanfic in a _very_ long time. (I think the last one was like an NCIS one on Fanfiction.net in like 2012 or something? I might be a little rusty.)
> 
> 2\. I kind of modelled Amy’s anxiety and OCD after my own. I know that it is different for everyone, but for me it manifests in needing for everything to be a certain way to feel _right._ Like everything needs to be organized the way I organized something the first time (e.g., the order of cups and mugs in a cupboard, the way my desk is set up, where my water bottle and phone goes on my desk during lectures, the order of the apps on my phone) in order for it to feel right. My OCD gets worse when my anxiety gets worse and it works like some sort of calming salve for me, the satisfaction of everything being _clean_ and _right,_ but it also makes the anxiety worse when it isn’t right. It’s like a coping mechanism that just makes everything so. much. worse. Anyways. I love Amy Santiago and yeah.  
>  2\. Part the Second: I actually do play the piano on my thighs whenever I get anxious, it usually helps to ground me. And I was also in band for seven years and even if you never take piano lessons, you learn how to play piano through that. My band teacher was honestly what got me through most of high school, and she was the one who suggested playing rhythms on my legs to center myself. I’ve been doing it for almost five years now and it does really help me. Anyways, since Amy was in band I figured she might have also picked up on something like this.
> 
> 3\. And pining!Amy is So Good™, because we never explicitly saw it on the show at, like, all? At least not like we saw Jake pining. Except for really late episodes of season two.
> 
> 4\. There was a ginormous snowstorm today (it’s not even Halloween yet, get it together Canada, geez) and my midterm got cancelled so I finally finished this!
> 
> 5\. This was originally based off of _Wild Country ___by Wake Owl (amazing song btw), which really inspired the whole pining part, specifically the very first line of that song. But ultimately, it ended up being _Promise_ by Ben Howard that ended up being the biggest inspiration for this, which is where the title and the headings are from.
> 
> 6\. (And it feels weirdly satisfying to actually post about my OCD on the Internet because, like, my family knows and my two best friends and that’s it. Like, I haven’t even told my roommate and probably will never, which also makes talking about this to a bunch of strangers completely terrifying as well.)


End file.
